The East Wind Cometh
by WillSherJohnKhan
Summary: What if 'the other one' Mycroft referred to wasn't a third brother, but the dark side of Sherlock's personality that emerged due to his excessive drug use. And it called itself Sherrinford.
1. The Genie's Out

AIRSTRIP – OUTSIDE LONDON

As the car pulled away from the airstrip and sped back to London, Sherlock rested his head against the backseat and took a steadying breathe in an attempt to calm his overstimulated mind. He needed to remain focussed on the Moriarty Situation. Except that something, or more accurately someone was determined to make their presence felt.

'That was a calculated risk wasn't it," the voice whispered.

Sherlock shook his head violently, trying to dislodge the unwanted and unwelcome intrusion.

'Surely you knew you couldn't silence me forever?' the voice continued. 'But now that I'm back, oh the terrible deeds I have planned Sherlock, just you wait and see.'

Through the rear view mirror John and Mary noted the sudden clenching of Sherlock's jaw and hands. But they paid it no mind, confident that it was merely an after effect of the overdose.

How could they know what had been unleashed? Nor the devastating consequences that were likely to follow because of it.


	2. Taking Control

THE DIOGENES CLUB – MYCROFT'S BASEMENT OFFICE

By the time John and Mary had dropped him off in front of The Diogenes Club, Sherlock was confident that the genie was back in the bottle and that he had himself fully under control. It was essential. He couldn't afford any kind of distraction. He needed to focus on the task at hand.

"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"

The transmission on the big screen TV incessantly repeated in its continually mind-numbing way. But before Sherlock could so much as open his mouth however, the third person in the room made their presence felt.

"We brought you back to deal with this? What are you going to do?" Lady Elizabeth Smallwood demanded.

From the sharp rise of Mycroft's eyebrows it was clear that even the self-proclaimed minor government official, otherwise known as the British Government, was somewhat taken aback by the force of the demand.

"Lady Smallwood," he began, in his most soothing, placating tone, only to be interrupted by his far less diplomatic younger brother.

"If you're concerned that Moriarty has risen from the dead, I can assure you he has not."

"Well if it isn't James Moriarty," the lady said. "Then who is it?"

"Who indeed," was the consulting detectives unhelpful response.

Having deduced that there was very little to be learned from the video itself. Sherlock turned abruptly and headed back out the door he'd just entered, as he did so he requested. "Keep me informed."

"Of what?" Mycroft asked irritably, clearly peeved by Sherlock's attitude.

"Absolutely no idea," came the unsatisfactory reply as he left the room.

221B BAKER STREET

Sherlock gave a sigh of relief when he finally reached the sanctuary of his flat, after managing to successfully escape a highly emotional Mrs Hudson.

His mind was racing, and he needed to calm it, if only to work out what was going on with the broadcast that had everyone in such a panic. But more importantly for himself, he needed to know what was going on in his own mind.

But first, he needed a shower.

Going to his bedroom Sherlock collected a change of clothes before entering the bathroom. Quickly he removed his clothes, stepped into the shower and turned the hot tap on full force. As the small cubicle filled with steam he reached for the soap and began washing himself automatically, his mind focussed on the situation that had saved him from the jaws of certain death.

Clearly the video was a fake. Moriarty was one hundred percent dead; the bullet the criminal mastermind had fired into his mouth had removed a sizeable chunk of the back of his skull. That and the haemorrhaging caused by the bullets flight as it made its way through, guaranteed that death was instantaneous.

Moriarty was definitely not behind the broadcast. That meant that it was either someone in his network that the detective had somehow missed when he took the organization down. Or it was someone who saw themselves as Moriarty's successor.

Stepping out of the shower, Sherlock quickly dried himself off before getting dressed. The only difference between what he'd worn before and what he was wearing now was the colour of his shirt. He'd chosen one of his purple ones.

Glancing in the mirror to check his appearance Sherlock froze.

Though the reflection showed familiar features, it was clear from the chillingly calculating gaze, the mocking rise of an eyebrow and the surly tilt of the lips that the world's only consulting detective was no longer in charge of either his mind, or his body.

Sherrinford had returned.

A familiar light tread upon the stairs leading to the flat caught Sherlock's dark personas attention.

Sherrinford's expression became one of feral anticipation, as with deliberate slowness he undid the first three buttons of the shirt. Ruffling his still damp curls, he winked at his reflection "I believe its time I introduced myself to Molly Hooper, don't you?"

As he exited the bathroom, Sherlock could only watch on in growing horror.


	3. Sorely Tempted

221B BAKER STREET

When Molly entered the flat she instinctively knew something wasn't right. But because she couldn't place her finger on exactly what, she allowed it slip to the back of her mind. Instead preferring to focus on the welcome sight of Sherlock, safe and well.

"Molly Hooper," Sherrinford all but purred as he walked over to her, closing the door before manoeuvring her with deliberate, predatory intent up against it, not stopping until his body made full, intimate contact with hers. It was an action that by its very nature should have had warning bells ringing loud and clear in her ears, except the bells chose to remain stubbornly silent.

Instead the action gave her the opportunity to examine him up close, and very personally. As her eyes travelled greedily over him, her breathing accelerated. He was wearing her favourite purple shirt, and several buttons were undone, revealing a well-toned chest. The towel dried curls, and the scent from the soap and shampoo he'd used inflamed her senses. As erotic images of Sherlock, dripping wet and naked filled her mind. Molly, her cheeks flushed, tilted her head back, and moaned out loud.

Sherrinford drank in the intoxicating sight that immediately ignited within him long repressed sexual urges. Using his knee to impatiently shove her legs apart he settled himself between them, his erection pressed hard up against her groin. At her surprised gasp he began aggressively rubbing his aching cock against her cunt.

Molly felt liquid heat pooling between her legs, her hips moving desperately in unison with his. "Sherlock," she moaned, becoming frustrated by the layers of clothes that prevented the skin-on-skin contact her body craved. She couldn't even run her fingers through his still damp hair, because he'd captured her hands in his, firmly holding them captive against the door above her head.

Needing reassurance that this was really happening, Molly looked up into his eyes, and froze. The man looking hungrily down at her wasn't Sherlock.

"Very good, Molly. Well spotted," Sherrinford growled, before he lowered his mouth to hers.

The kiss was a mix of rage, raw lust and white-hot passion. It was fuelled by an urgency born of desperate determination to satisfy desires and sexual needs so long suppressed, in favour of cold, emotionless logic.

Any thoughts Molly might have had of resisting him instantly evaporated. Whoever had taken possession of the consulting detective it was clear he knew how to kiss. And she was more than happy to be the recipient of it.

Sherrinford triumphed at Molly's capitulation. But his ego was arrogant enough to want Molly Hooper to know exactly whom it was she was going to be fucked by. Raising his head, he said in a voice roughened by growing sexual need. "The name's Sherrinford." Introduction over his lips immediately returned to the delectable delight of hers.

Although Molly continued to enjoy and respond to Sherrinford's sexual advances, his words had broken through the spell he'd cast over her. So while her body continued to receive his attentions with unrestrained enthusiasm, her mind began working through two very important questions that needed answering.

Who, or what was Sherrinford?  
Quite how he'd manifested himself, Molly couldn't say. But, she reasoned, there were a number of conditions that could account for it including: schizophrenia, stimulant psychosis and dissociative identity disorder, more commonly known as multiple-personality disorder. If that was the case, then that meant that Sherlock was still there, somewhere, struggling to get free.

Why was she allowing Sherrinford to kiss her?  
Who was she kidding? She knew exactly why she was allowing this. Part of it came down to out and out jealousy, after having read ALL of the newspaper interviews given by Janine, and her claims of their having sex 'seven times a night…' But those claims had been as false as their relationship, Sherlock admitting he'd used Magnussen's ex-PA to get information about her boss and where he kept his secret vaults.

And the other part was a selfish desire to experience being kissed by the man she had always loved.

But as much as her body craved to give in to Sherrinford's seduction, her conscience pricked at the knowledge that it could only be achieved by using Sherlock's body. To do so without his full and willing consent was unthinkable, especially since she knew that Sherlock would never…

Molly looked again into the eyes of the man before her, and this time she saw someone far more dear and familiar. Looking back at her was Sherlock, trapped by the persona of his own minds creation. It gave her the strength to pull back from the embrace.

Sherlock, realising Molly could see him used all of his mental strength to briefly regain control from Sherrinford's possession. "Molly. I don't have much time. You need to leave…get away from Sherrinford. Take Mrs Hudson with you.'

Molly could see the cost the struggle to maintain control in Sherlock's tortured expression. She gave an imperceptible nod to show she understood. Then without making a sound she mouthed a message directly to Sherlock. "I'm sorry."

Oblivious that control had temporarily been wrestled from his grasp, Sherrinford was preoccupied with satisfying his body's rampant sexual urges, and was on the point of reclaiming Molly's lips, pausing when he too saw her silent words. His confusion soon turned to anger when he felt her knee connect with his groin. Taken by surprise, he doubled over. And that's when Molly took the opportunity to sharply stab her fingers into his Adam's apple, causing him to stumble backwards.

Molly hurried down the stairs, then ran to Mrs Hudson's door and knocked urgently.

When Mrs Hudson answered, Molly grabbed the elderly landlady. "We have to get out of here right away," she cried.

From the above flat, Sherrinford got to his feet, "You little bitch!" he snarled angrily.

Thankfully, realising something was amiss; Mrs Hudson didn't put up any argument.

Out on the street Molly hailed a cab.

LONON CAB

Once they were safely inside, she told the cabbie. "Scotland Yard," before getting out her mobile and making a call.

"Doctor Hooper, to what do I…" Mycroft began, before being rudely interrupted.

"Sherrinford."

"Where are you now?" Mycroft's bored tone became one of urgency.

"Mrs Hudson and I are on our way to Scotland Yard," Molly replied.

"I'll meet you there," and the line went dead.


	4. How One Became Two

NEW SCOTLAND YARD – LESTRADE'S OFFICE

By the time Molly and Mrs Hudson were ushered into Lestrade's office, Mycroft was already there, as was John Watson.

After assuring everyone that she was unharmed, Molly gave a brief account of her encounter with Sherrinford.

When she finished there was a contemplative silence as all those present considered the implications of this seemingly unexpected new threat.

John was the first to react, rounding angrily on Mycroft.

"You knew, didn't you?" he demanded, annoyance rapidly turning to anger as pieces of a puzzle that had been plaguing him for years concerning Sherlock and Mycroft's precarious relationship finally fell into place. "Oh, my God!" a sharp burst of laughter, filled with bitterness and fuelled by pain escaped his lips. "That's why you wanted me to look after him for you…you knew this…"

"No," Mycroft replied sharply, surprising everyone in the room. None had ever witnessed the minor government official ever lose his cool.

Mycroft took a deep, steadying breath before continuing. "Yes I knew about the persona that called itself Sherrinford, of course I did. He is my brother after all. But I've had no reason to believe that he would ever resurface." Here he paused, considering his words carefully. "Or at least I didn't, until about half an hour before I received Doctor Hooper's call."

"I think its time you explained everything you know about Sherrinford," Lestrade calmly counselled. "Don't you?"

Molly watched as Mycroft nodded with resignation. It was clear that it was a decision that obviously cost him. Neither of the Holmes brothers was ever known to freely open up about themselves. To reveal something so personal, and private would be extremely painful, especially if it involved memories that he would have preferred to remain forgotten.

Mycroft chose to look out the window as he began his narrative.

"You have to understand, when Sherlock was young our parents took him to see a number of psychologists and psychiatrists. They hoped that these specialists could help him adjust his behaviour so that he could more easily integrate with other children his age."

"But they couldn't," John surmised.

The briefest of smiles graced Mycroft's lips. "Not surprising really. Even then Sherlock was already more than a match for them. Every session ended early, with the specialist leaving the consulting room in tears."

Finally Mycroft turned to those assembled. "It was hoped that once he enrolled at university that he would settle. Being in the company of likeminded individuals who might come close to being his intellectual equals. But sadly he was still way ahead of his fellow students, and lecturers… He found the whole situation intolerable. His mind was constantly racing, while others plodded along. In constant need of intellectual stimulation he soon grew bored. The only thing that offered him any sort of relief was…"

"Drugs," John supplied.

"Yes. Attempts were made of course to get Sherlock into a number of rehabilitation clinics. But he always found a way to leave their programs early." As Mycroft continued his explanation, his expression became etched with deep sorrow. "He'd been using and experimenting with various narcotics for a couple of years when the persona of Sherrinford first manifested itself."

Molly's attention had never wavered from the elder Holmes from the moment he began his explanation. She immediately sensed that the pain he felt concerning this persona was not solely down to guilt. Many families with drug-addicted members went through similar scenarios. Something else lay at the heart of the matter, something very painful, and extremely personal.

"Who was Sherrinford, Mycroft?" she asked quietly.

Mycroft looked directly at the pathologist, nodding his head in approval, as he finally understood, and appreciated why Sherlock held her in such high esteem.

"Sherrinford was Sherlock's twin brother, who died in childbirth."

"So, Sherlock…what? Believed that his brother had returned." John queried, grappling to understand.

"No, nothing like that. Sherrinford was the name it chose because it represented a part of Sherlock that he had lost."

"So…he did come about due to a form of drug-induced psychosis," Molly clarified.

"Yes."

Again there was a brief silence as those gathered were lost in thought as they took in all that they had learned.

"Describe Sherrinford for us?" Lestrade requested.

"Sherrinford is everything that Sherlock is not," Mycroft began. "He represents all that Sherlock dismisses as irrelevant. Passion, feelings, insatiable sexual desires, hunger. Sherlock is the mind, Sherrinford is the emotion."

"But they share the same intellect, knowledge, memories," Lestrade clarified.

"Of course. They are after all one and the same person. They simply reflect different aspects of the same personality."

"So what happened?" John asked.

"The balance began to shift."

"Sherrinford gained in strength," Molly correctly speculated.

"Yes," Mycroft confirmed. "Not surprising with emotion driving the push for dominance. Sherlock realising he was losing control agreed to an intervention, but he point blank refused to see anyone in the medical field."

John frowned. "So how was it dealt with?"

"Sherlock was insistent that there was only one person who could 'cure' him. His name was Culverton Smith. A man who gained a reputation in certain circles with his use of hypnosis and other questionable methods to cure those affected by prolonged abuse of specific substances."

"A crackpot in other words," John stated.

"Quite," Mycroft agreed. "I was convinced he was nothing more than a charlatan who prayed upon those who were in desperate need. But investigations into his practices proved inconclusive. And Sherlock was adamant that he was the only person he would see."

"What happened?" Lestrade asked.

"To our genuine surprise, and relief Smith somehow managed to imprison the Sherrinford persona within a part of Sherlock's mind. From that time on the genie has remained trapped within the bottle."

"Until now," John pointed out.

Mycroft didn't respond.

Molly, sensing Mycroft was feeling under intense pressure, broached the subject from a slightly different angle. "What became of this Culverton Smith?"

"Nothing was seen or heard of him again…until now."

"Where is he?" John asked. "Maybe he can help."

Mycroft saw the hopeful look in the doctor's eyes, a hope he knew he was going to have to destroy. "I'm very much afraid John that helping Sherlock is the last thing Culverton Smith intends to do."

"Why?"

"Our investigations into the Moriarty broadcast have led us to a man who was at one time another one of Smith's 'clients'. Before the man took his own life he implied that Smith had somehow triggered the man's previous psychosis to control him to produce the broadcast."

The implications had all in the room looking at each other in growing horror.

Sherlock was now in very grave danger.

"So what now?" Lestrade demanded.

At that moment there was a knock on the door, and a moment later, Mycroft's PA Anthea entered.

Mycroft appeared to relax a little. "First off, Anthea is going to escort Mrs Hudson and my parents to a secure location where they will be kept safe under full protection for the duration of this unfortunate situation."

Once Mrs Hudson had left, Mycroft got to his feet, walked over to Molly and offered her his arm. "Doctor Hooper."

"Molly," Molly insisted as she took his arm.

As they too headed out the door, Mycroft finally answered the detective inspector. "Molly and I are going to introduce you to Sherrinford."


	5. Sherrinford

GOVERNMENT CAR

There was a markedly tense atmosphere inside the car as it wound its way through London's teeming streets.

Everyone was uncomfortably on edge, none more so than Mycroft.

Molly gently placed a comforting hand on his arm as she quietly asked. "What is it about Sherrinford's re-emergence that has you so concerned?"

Despite his earlier initiating of physical contact, Mycroft still had to fight his natural inclination to withdraw from such a familiar gesture. But for the pathologist he resisted the urge.

"In essence I dare say he will be as he was before. He is hedonistic by nature, constantly in pursuit of sensual pleasures in all its varying delights and forms: sex, drugs and alcohol being the most obvious. Given Sherlock's generous allowance, Sherrinford was able to make ample use of it to procure whatever he needed to sustain his 'high' of choice. To this he added Sherlock's gift for deducing others. Ruthlessly exploiting those vulnerable to his flirtatious overtures, in order to gain advantage over them for his own personal nefarious agenda…"

Molly felt her cheeks flush as she remembered the way Sherrinford had immediately zeroed in on her one-sided feelings for Sherlock.

"Since then of course Sherlock has become more cynical of life, and instead focused his attention on what he terms 'the work'. To that end he has spent years gaining an extensive knowledge of anything and everything that he believes will assist him in tracking down those of a criminal disposition."

"Knowledge that Sherrinford now shares," John noted.

"God help us all," Lestrade muttered under his breath.

While the others considered the ramifications, Mycroft was already considering the irony of the other situation that the others had yet to fully appreciate.

"Did you know," he remarked casually "that it was Culverton Smith who introduced Sherlock to the concept of a mind palace?"

As he expected, all turned to look at him in varying degrees of surprise.

"I'm sorry, what?" John spluttered.

But Mycroft refused to elaborate

Lestrade knowing the Holmes' brothers penchant for dropping seemingly irrelevant snippets of information, only to immediately drop them until they were ready to explain their significance at a later date, chose to concern himself with what had been revealed, noting thoughtfully. "Why now? That's what I don't get. At the time he initially helped Sherlock, he couldn't have known what Sherlock was to become."

"Oh, no," Mycroft readily agreed. "I don't believe we should credit Smith with that kind of hindsight, or clairvoyance. Culverton Smith is an opportunist; Sherlock was merely one of any number of unfortunate victims. But due to my little brothers fame over the last few years, he has come up on Smith's radar as a highly valuable commodity."

"And you believe that the Moriarty broadcast and Sherrinford's appearance are linked?" John commented.

"I'm absolutely certain of it."

"But how? And why?"

At that moment the car pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street.

"That is what I hope we are all about to discover," Mycroft replied.

221B BAKER STREET

When they entered Sherlock's flat the curtains had been drawn, shrouding the room in darkness.

The only concession to the current gloom was the fire that had been lit in the fireplace. It offered both warmth and the occasional glimpse of the man currently sitting in Sherlock's chair.

The man, who resembled the consulting detective, yet wasn't.

Minutes ticked by and still no one said a word. All sizing each other up, and the situation they found themselves in.

Mycroft finally broke the silence. "The roads we walk have demons beneath. And yours have been waiting for a very long time, brother mine."

Sherrinford rolled his eyes as he let out a dismissive and derisive snort. Getting to his feet, he stood with his back to the fireplace. "And you claim Sherlock is the one for dramatics. Believe me Mycroft, Sherlock has nothing on you."

"Then its just as well the comment wasn't directed at him," came the blisteringly condescending retort.

As Mycroft knew it would, his comment served to challenge and defy Sherrinford's authority. Predicably Sherrinford's response to the knowledge that he was not going to win an argument with the elder Holmes served him to redouble his efforts by attacking others.

His first victim was John.

"So John, not bought the missus with you? Though I suppose in her current condition playing hubby's bodyguard would prove…difficult, wouldn't it?"

He paused, enjoying the play of emotions that flittered across the doctor's face. And then he went in for the kill.

"Come to think of it, given her former line of work, do you really think she'll make a suitable mother for your child."

When John took a threatening step forward, it was clear to everyone that all he wanted to do at that moment was hit Sherrinford hard, to knock the look of smug satisfaction and wipe it right off his face, and then to keep on punching him. He was so angry he was unable to form a verbal response. But his stance and the fire in his eyes said it all.

Sherrinford let out a satisfied chuckle as Lestrade was forced to restrain the doctor before he could do actual physical harm to the body of their friend.

But the detective inspector's intervention had guaranteed that he was next in Sherrinford's sights.

"How does it feel Lestrade to be always in need of Sherlock to solve all your cases for you?" He made no attempt to hide the sneering contempt that such a notion generated within him. "Isn't it galling to know that you and those who work with you don't master the ability to do it on your own?" It must be of huge embarrassment to all those at Scotland Yard."

Lestrade however was better able to reign in his feelings against the taunts being directed his way. He was used to defending the need to use the consulting detectives particular skill-sets, having become an expert after spending years arguing with Anderson and Donovan over the very same issues.

So much to Sherrinford's disappointment, he refused point blank to rise to the bait.

That just left Molly.

Sherrinford's piercing gaze settled on the petite pathologist. Molly braced herself for a barrage of abuse, but instead he appeared…triumphant, gleefully so.

"Ah Miss Hooper, knew you couldn't resist me for long. Back for round two? Perhaps this time we'll progress further than first base…"

Molly had been watching Sherrinford's eyes intently as soon as they zeroed in on her. There was something about the eyes that gave away who was in control. As Sherrinford's words petered out she noted a subtle change in their expression, and she allowed her tense muscles to relax.

"Sorry about that." Sherlock began.

"It's all right," Molly assured him.

"I assume you're back in charge of Sherrinford," Mycroft surmised.

"Obviously," Sherlock responded dryly. "Since Molly left with Mrs Hudson I've been re-establishing control without Sherrinford's knowledge."

"You're certain you have full control over him?" It was clear Mycroft was sceptical.

"Very certain. You're going to have to trust me on this Mycroft. As far as Sherrinford is concerned at this very moment he believes he is the one speaking with you."

Mycroft still didn't look happy. He turned to look at Molly, who nodded her head. With a defeated sigh the elder Holmes said with a resigned sigh. "Very well."

Mycroft may have been reluctantly convinced, but the same could not be said for John and Lestrade.

"Just like that you believe him. How can we be certain this really is Sherlock speaking to us now?" John demanded. "For all we know…"

"Because Molly knows," Mycroft interjected. "We have to trust her instincts."

Sherlock raised a surprised eyebrow at the familiar way his brother addressed his pathologist. But that was something to be followed up later. Right now there were more pressing issues to attend to.

"Any news on the Moriarty broadcast?"

"Actually yes," Mycroft replied smugly. "The one behind the broadcast was a man named Thatcher. Ring any bells?"

Sherlock frowned, shaking his head. "No," he replied. "Should it?"

"Thatcher was a former client of Culverton Smith," Mycroft paused to enjoy the shocked look that briefly crossed Sherlock's face at the mention of the name. "Before Thatcher committed suicide he admitted that Smith had manipulated him to make the video to get your attention."

"You believe Smith is somehow behind Sherrinford's return," Sherlock correctly deduced.

"Yes. I just don't know how or why."

"Well the why seems clear to me," Sherlock began. "Smith believes he has a better chance of getting control of my mind through Sherrinford."

"Agreed."

"So I suggest we let him."

Everyone in the room looked at Sherlock as if he really had lost his mind.

"Sherlock," Molly cried.

"Are you insane?" John demanded.

"No way," Lestrade chimed in, flabbergasted.

Mycroft had been watching his brother carefully. "What did you have in mind?"

"If I can convince Sherrinford to work with me to catch Smith, then we can find out exactly what it is that he's up to. And more importantly how he did it"

"And you're certain you can obtain Sherrinford's co-operation?"

Sherlock turned to Molly. "With help, I believe it's achievable."

Mycroft, John and Lestrade didn't look happy, but Sherlock could tell that Molly was prepared to listen to his proposed plan.

Turning back to the others Sherlock remarked casually. "I believe it would be best if Molly and I discussed this in private. Why don't the rest of you make yourselves a cup of tea, or something. Molly, come with me."

Without waiting for a response Sherlock strode down the hall to his bedroom, with Molly trailing after him.

Sherlock led Molly over to his bed and got her to sit on the edge, he then crouched down in front of her.

But when he didn't immediately begin explaining what he had in mind, Molly realised he was uncomfortable broaching the details of his plan with her. But she needed to know what he expected of her. "If your plan to get Culverton Smith works, do you believe its key to entrapping Sherrinford permanently?" she asked.

"Yes I do."

"Then tell me. What can I do to help?"

"You're aware that Sherrinford…wants you. Very badly," he began.

Molly bowed her head, all of a sudden feeling extremely vulnerable.

"At the moment its all he thinks about. It consumes him. He has a primal need to possess you. He would very much like to bed you."

Sherlock paused, taking her clasped hands from where they rested on her lap into his much larger ones. "Molly, I want you to let him."

Molly's head shot up and she gave a strangled gasp filled with hurt and humiliation. "For Christ's sake, Sherlock," she cried totally outraged. "It's not a game!" She tried to remove her hands from his grasp, but he wouldn't release her.

Of all the possible scenarios she imagined he might have suggested, this was most definitely not one she would have thought he would ever consider. She was prepared to do many things for Sherlock, and had done so. But there were limits. And here she'd thought they'd finally reached a point in their relationship, one that was based on mutual respect. For him to suggest such a thing, in the full knowledge of her infatuation with him, was just too cruel.

"I can't… Sherlock, you can't ask…you know how I still…"

Sherlock released her hands and placed a gentle finger against her lips, while with his other hand he brushed away the tears that had begun to fall. Solemnly he looked deeply into the pair of hurt brown eyes before him. "I realise that what I'm asking of you is…unfair given your feelings for me. But you're right this is most definitely not a game. Believe me I wouldn't ask such a thing of you if I didn't believe you had the strength to follow through with it."

"Is there no other way?" she whispered.

Sherlock shook his head, his expression grim. "No Molly. Sherrinford wants you, and only you. Those are his terms if he is to agree to the rest of my plan."

Molly chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip, squaring her shoulders as she came to a decision. "All right," she said. "I'll do it. Just promise me Sherlock, promise me this wont ruin our…our friendship."

Sherlock stretched up to gently kiss her on the forehead, before enfolding her in a hug. "No Molly, I wont allow it."

Molly gave a small, sad smile. For despite the arrogant assurance they both knew, after this, their relationship would never be the same.

"If there was some other way…"

"I know," Molly responded as she withdrew from his embrace and made her way to the door, turning when she realised he wasn't following her. "Are you coming?"

"I'll be out in a minute," he assured her.

No sooner had the door closed then a self-satisfied smirk settled upon Sherrinford's lips as he rubbed his hands together in growing anticipation, he could barely contain himself.

Everything was going exactly to plan.


	6. A Little Man With Big Plans

221B BAKER STREET

Sherrinford flopped down into Sherlock's chair with a relieved sigh. Now that everyone had departed, the flat was blissfully quite.

He'd been able to assure the others that he and Molly would have 'Sherrinford' in hand shortly, having to suppress the shiver of excitement as his lust-fuelled mind supplied erotic images generated by those seemingly innocent words.

If the others were concerned that Molly appeared disinclined to go into details of their plan they didn't show it. In all likelihood they put it down to a supreme confidence in their precious Sherlock's plan, now that he was back 'in control'.

Shortly after he'd sent Mycroft, John and Lestrade off to do whatever they felt necessary to follow up on the situation.

Then he'd had a private word with Molly, suggesting that she return to the flat later that night.

Leaning back in the chair he now contemplated all that he had learned. The news that Culverton Smith had returned was a surprise. He knew precious little of the man himself, only that he had been the one to entrap him so many years ago.

However, there was one place where he knew he could find all the information he needed. Closing his eyes, Sherrinford began his search…

The sheer volume of information stored within the Mind Palace was initially overwhelming. There was just so much! And all of it was extremely distracting. He felt like a kid in a sweet store, with so many tantalising lollies on offer, making the decision of what to choose very difficult. But first things first, he needed to find all he could on Smith, the rest could wait for later.

After searching aimlessly, moving from one room to another, he finally came across a number of filing cabinets. Contained within were a number of index cards, with locations for where everything was stored.

Eagerly Sherrinford began flipping through the S's. But just as he came to the 'Smith's', and not surprisingly there were quite a few of them, something else caught his attention. Out of the corner of his eye there appeared a door. But when he turned to look at it, it was no longer there. Yet he felt an irresistible urge to find it. It felt like it was calling to him.

But for once in his existence he was able to conquer his need, finding the strength to ignore the temptation the door offered, and went back to searching for, and eventually finding the information he sought.

Sherrinford entered the room, inside it resembled Sherlock's flat, with a leather chair by a fireplace. The only difference was the low table by the chair. On it was a manila folder, labelled 'Culverton Smith'.

Sherrinford sat down in the chair, and reached for the file.

SMITH, CULVERTION – b. 1966

Life had not been particularly kind in regards to its dealings with Culverton Smith, who had suffered a series of unfortunate blows throughout his fifty years.

His premature birth had led to a sickly constitution, due to a weakened immune system. With his short stature, 5'3", (though all legal documentation had been altered to state it was 5'5"), small, piercing eyes that glared malevolently from under tufted and sandy brows which matched in colour, if not in texture that which appeared on his head, which was course and greasy. His round face, accentuated by a double chin, also included a pair of thin lips, which were fixed in a permeant sneer. The voice that emerged through these lips was pointed, deliberate and oily in nature.

The effect of which left those in the unenviable position of finding themselves having to deal with him directly, feeling somewhat uncomfortable and ill at ease.

Unable to attend school due to his many illnesses, Smith never obtained the qualifications he'd dreamed of achieving. He'd also had to endure ridicule due to his odd appearance, and the constant taunting and bullying by those bigger, stronger and healthier than he, had led Smith to develop a viciously vindictive nature.

This had led him to immerse himself in the learning of very particular skills, including hypnosis. Skills that would guarantee he was the one in control.

For his clientele he singled out those who were young and rich. Preying on those for whom life was nothing more than an excuse to relieve their boredom through whatever means money could buy. And when these means got out of control, Culverton Smith made sure he was there to offer his assistance, for a price.

It was a price none had considered. For Smith had discovered a way to reverse his 'cure' Just on the off chance, as an insurance policy of sorts, should the need arise and an opportunity present itself. To exploit those that had come to him looking for aid.

13 LOWER BURKE STREET

A large car with tinted windows pulled up in front of the house. Culverton Smith got out and made his way to the front door, and entered.

His step was light, and there was an air of unconcealed delight about his whole person. It was something he had never experienced before, but he felt that his time was well and truly due.

For, sadly nothing much came of Smith's plans to dominate the idle rich. A number of his clients never reaching past their twenties, preferring to continue to live hard and fast, and ultimately suffering the consequences. The few that did make their way in the world, all appeared to choose the soft and safe options offered them, ensuring that none achieved the type of skills Smith felt would be of valuable use to him.

He'd spent a number of years in Africa, a place that offered interesting and curious methods, voodoo and the like, even while it proved more than a little hazardous to his delicate health. But he felt certain the risks were work it. Especially when word reached him of the remarkable skills displayed by an arrogant man who gave himself the lofty title of the World's Only Consulting Detective.

A quick check of his extensive and detailed records of his former clients revealed that at long last, here was the opportunity he had been waiting for, for nearly twenty years.

Sherlock Holmes was going to be his ticket to riches.

Yet when he returned to England, it was only to discover that not even Sherlock's celebrated fame could save him from a murder charge. But thanks to that fame it had guaranteed that Holmes would not go to jail. Instead he was to be sent on a mission for MI6, one from which he was not ever likely to return.

That would never do. It was imperative that Sherlock Holmes remained in England.

And so Smith had made certain that he did.


	7. Caught Between Heaven and Hell

221B BAKER STREET

Molly stood outside the door to Sherlock's flat, oscillating nervously from one foot to the other, chewing anxiously on her lower lip as she tried to summon the courage to knock on the door.

She was dressed simply and casually in tee shirt and sweatpants, feeling it was appropriate for this…whatever it was. Date? Rendezvous? One-night stand?

She'd just raised her hand, when the door opened.

Sherrinford was dressed in Sherlock's blue dressing gown and nothing else, judging from the amount of flesh revealed by the loosely tied belt. The enticing image he presented was further enhanced by the dark shadow of stubble that adorned his upper lip, cheeks and chin. It gave him a piratical air, a rogue intent on enjoying a night of illicit passion.

The slumberous anticipation she read in his molten gaze had Molly pressing her legs together as an unexpected flood of arousal soon caused her knickers to become indecently wet.

Sherringford stepped back, allowing Molly to enter.

"Would you like a drink? Wine, perhaps?" Sherrinford asked, as Molly remained hovering by the doorway.

"Yes please," she responded with relief, finally moving over to the sofa and sitting down. To be honest she'd been worried about just how this was all going to play out. It had nothing to do with romance. It was about sex, pure and simple. An arrangement agreed to. A one-off. She mustn't allow her one-sided feelings for Sherlock to complicate an already complicated situation.

When Sherrinford returned with the two glasses, Molly gulped hers down quickly, and soon felt her tense muscles relax, and her frantic thoughts dull as the alcohol worked its way pleasantly through her system.

Her action left Sherrinford feeling…troubled. He'd convinced himself that Molly would be a more than willing participant, after all she was finally going to get the opportunity, to some extant, to shag Sherlock. But it suddenly occurred to him that that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted Molly Hooper, very badly, and he needed her to remember just who it was who was bedding her.

He placed his glass down on the low table, and did the same with Molly's empty one. He then turned to face her directly. "Call it ego, pride or revenge against Sherlock, but I want it to be in the forefront of your mind Molly that it is me, and not Sherlock that you are about to go to bed with." Sherrinford cupped her chin gently in his hand "Sherrinford Edward Alexander Holmes is the one who wants you, who will make love to you. Not Sherlock."

"I understand," Molly responded softly.

Satisfied, Sherrinford got to his feet and offered Molly his hand.

When Molly stood she felt a little dizzy. She'd been so wound up about the whole situation ever since agreeing to it, and had no appetite. As a result she hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. Drinking the wine as quickly as she had on a virtually empty stomach had left her light-headed.

Sherrinford easily swept her up in his arms, and carried her into Sherlock's bedroom.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and her slightly befuddled brain to start working properly, but once they both had, Molly found herself charmed by Sherrinford's efforts.

The curtains had been drawn, with the only light coming from the lamps on the bedside cabinets. There glow giving the normally stark room a cosy, intimate feel. Rose petals sprinkled over the pillows added a romantic touch, there sweet perfume filtering through the air.

As far as Sherrinford was concerned Sherlock's stubborn argument that the body was merely transport was pure folly. The body needed nourishment: mentally, physically and sexually. To deny one or more of those requirements would lead to self-destruction, as Sherlock should be all too aware. For the mind alone couldn't offer such sustenance.

So, although his motives for wanting to bed Molly Hooper were purely selfish in nature, that didn't mean he didn't want Molly to enjoy their one night together. He wanted that very much. And as such he was determined to leave her in no doubt that he found her desirable.

Setting Molly gently down, he proceeded to strip them both naked, before gathering her in his arms once again and carrying her over to the bed.

Molly lay herself down, and waited.

Sherrinford got on the bed and lay on his side, his upper body supported by one arm. With his other hand he reached out to her, and Molly soon discovered that he was a very considerate lover. In fact he left Molly with the impression that he was committing every millimetre of her body to memory. For his genius lay in his ability to heighten the arousal of his partner with the lightest touch. This he did with the softest of caresses as he lightly brushed his fingers over her cheeks, her eyelids, eyebrows and forehead. The pace was leisurely, as though they had all the time in the world. He then repeated his actions in reverse, but this time with his lips. His light, loving kisses gradually made their way to Molly's mouth, where he took his time to relish the contact.

Only when Molly parted her lips did he finally slip his tongue inside. Instantly their tongues engaged in a heated dance. But just as things began to heat up, Sherrinford withdrew, determined to take his time.

Molly's groan of frustration soon became a moan of pure delight as Sherrinford nibbed his way over her neck, throat and shoulders. Her breasts and naval also received reverent and ardent attention, with gentle strokes and kisses, as he leisurely meandered his way south. And all the while the sensuous glide of his fingers over her exposed skin left her twisting in restless delight.

The sight of him settled between her legs caused Molly's brain to shut down as she gave herself over to Sherrinford's care, losing herself as he placed wet, erotic kisses along her inner thighs until he reached the nest of curls at the apex. His lips and talented tongue soon had Molly throwing her head back, her breath coming in shorts gasps as her hips rose, pressing herself urgently against his face, she was so close.

All it took was one more flick of his tongue to send her over the edge. And she came, calling his name, not Sherlock's.

After she'd recovered her breath, she made to return the pleasure in kind, but Sherrinford would have none of it. He gained far more satisfaction in the knowledge that he had been the one to bring her sexual satisfaction. And he was far from finished as he made his way back up her body, so slide into her with one smooth thrust. His hips began pumping at a punishing pace, and in record time Molly reached her second peak.

Sherrinford followed soon after.

For a few minutes they lay quietly recovering themselves, Sherrinford having collapsed completely boneless on top of her. Molly was content for him to stay there as she tenderly ran her fingers through his wayward curls.

But not long after Molly noted a definite shift, the subtle withdrawal of emotional connection, as Sherrinford appeared to freeze. A cool, almost clinical atmosphere suddenly enveloped the once intimate cosiness of the room. With a grunt, he abruptly rolled off her and sat up. With his back resting against the bed-head, he reached for a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

The tension in the air, coupled with the reserve now being displayed by the man, who only moments before had fulfilled her sexually in a way no other man ever had, made Molly incredibly uncomfortable. She turned away, allowing silent tears to roll down her cheeks. Her worst fears had been fully realised.

Unable to remain in the awkward position she now found herself, Molly got up and out of the bed, dressing as quickly as she could before stumbling towards the door in her desperate need to escape.

Sherlock observed her progress from under hooded eyelids. As she reached the doorway, he murmured softly. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."

Molly left the room without a word, too distraught to make any kind of response.

As soon as the front door slammed shut, Sherlock closed his eyes.

Sherlock faced a clearly distracted Sherrinford, still on a sexually fuelled euphoric high. Sherlock however was impatient to get on feeling more than enough time has been unnecessarily wasted.

"All right, Sherrinford," he began. "You've had your fun. Now its…"

Except Sherrinford wasn't paying any notice, he was far more interested in the reappearance of the door that yet again began calling to him, enticing him to follow it.

"Sherrinford!"

When still no response was forthcoming, Sherlock decided to take a leaf out of Molly Hooper's book.

'Slap.'

'Slap!'

'SLAP!'

Shocked and outraged Sherrinford glared at Sherlock as he attempted to soothe his reddened cheek.

"Focus Sherriford," Sherlock ordered in exasperation.

"Fine, now what?" came the petulant response.

"Now, its time we dealt with that loathsome little toad Culverton Smith. And this is how we're going to do it…"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he allowed himself the indulgence of a satisfied smirk. If everything went to plan, things would soon be back to normal.

The smirk however became a grimace as he looked down at himself, and the state of his bed.

Clearly a change of sheets was in order.

But first, what he really needed right now was a shower. Getting out of the bed, he headed for the bathroom.


	8. A Dangerous Game to Play

13 LOWER BURKE STREET

The taxi pulled up in front of the address, and Sherlock got out. He stood on the footpath and took in his surroundings, taking his time to observe the property before him, and deduce what it had to say about its present tenant.

It was a fine looking house, giving the impression of demure respectability, highlighted by the old-fashioned iron railings, the massive folding front door with its shinning brass-work. Yet the effect was tarnished somewhat by an overpowering air of smug satisfaction the permeated, the outer, and no doubt the interior of the premises.

"Over-compensating, wouldn't you say?" noted Sherrinford.

"Clearly," Sherlock responded, though his attention was focussed on an upper window, from which he had caught a brief glimpse of the man they had come to see.

With nothing more to learn from their current position Sherlock walked up to the front door to formally announce their arrival by grasping the brass knocker firmly.

When the door opened, Sherlock strode straight past the manservant and headed for the ornate staircase.

As Sherlock tore up the stairs, Smith's servant, Staples attempted to overtake him. But against a man taller, younger and far more determined, he stood little chance.

When the consulting detective reached the landing, he turned to the right and made his way to the second door. Only then did he pause.

"Remember, we're here to ascertain how Smith is able to reverse his procedures, seemingly by remote control," Sherlock reminded Sherrinford.

Sherrinford felt resentment rising within him, at the cruel reminder that his very existence was viewed as an inconvenience by Sherlock, and as a tool to Smith.

His responded by glaring at his other self as he silently fumed.

Sherlock knew he was being harsh, but there simply wasn't time for niceties. They needed to find out exactly how Smith was able to manipulate the re-emergence of the other personalities, only then could they hope to put an end to his nasty little schemes.

Impatiently he clicked his fingers in front of Sherrinford's face to get his attention. "Remember the plan Sherrinford, and stick to it," he instructed.

"Fine," came the sullen reply.

As Sherlock exited his Mind Palace, Staples joined him and opened the door. Though Sherlock stepped forward, Sherrinford was the one who entered the room.

It was show time.

Silk, satin and velvet brocade enveloped all the furniture and furnishings, which were big, bold and expensive. But if Smith was attempting to give the impression of refined elegance, he'd failed. The gaudy excessiveness came across as vulgar, tasteless and pretentious.

Sherrinford ignored all the wealth on display, his attention fixed on the unpleasant looking little man that stood in the centre of the room.

"Sherrinford," Smith cried with obvious delight. "So good to see you again."

"Easy," Sherlock whispered, as Sherrinford noticeably tensed, finally confronted with the man who had orchestrated his original demise.

"Just cut to the chase," Sherrinford ordered sharply. "What is it you want from me, Smith?"

Culverton Smith took a step forward his expression of hurt a false veneer. "Sherrinford," his tone soothing, cajoling, condescending. "Why would I want anything from you?"

"Because…" Sherrinford faltered, his attention caught by the movement of Smith's fingers.

The stubby little digits were continually turning a coin over and over in a constant, steady rhythm.

It was mesmerising.

Sherrinford shook his head, in an attempt to clear it. He had been saying something, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate.

The coin kept turning…over, and over again.

"You…" he began again. "…Made certain Sherlock didn't leave…"

His eyelids felt so heavy, all he wanted to do was…

"Why don't you come and sit down," Smith suggested, as he and Staples led the half comatose Sherrinford over to a chair and sat him down.

As Sherrinford's head lowered and his chin came to rest against his chest, Culverton Smith gave a chuckle.

But as he reached out to ruffle the mass of curls, his expression became contemptuous. "And just like that," he sneered triumphantly "you are mine, to do with as I wish."

Taking a seat in the chair opposite, he admitted. "You're quite correct of course, I do need something from you. I want all the information Sherlock has acquired on the dearly departed Messer's Moriarty and Magnussen." He paused, leaning forward to pat the man before him on the head, as one would a child, or a dog. "Come on Sherrinford, I know you can do it."

Something in Smith's actions, or his snide tone broke through to Sherrinford's very core. Immediately all the fury and rage that he'd kept contained concerning what Sherlock had allowed this little man to do to him all those years ago, imprisoning him so deep within Sherlock's mind that he forgot he ever existed, came rushing to the fore.

Sherlock knew the methods that Culverton Smith would use to gain control of Sherrinford. As there hadn't been time to train Sherrinford on how to counter the effects of being put under hypnosis, Sherlock ensured that Smith couldn't take control.

What Sherlock hadn't countered on was Smith's need to prove his dominance using psychological abuse, in this case through humiliation.

Sherlock was hit by a massive wave of all the emotions Sherrinford was experiencing: hurt, anger, resentment, and confusion.

"Sherrinford, you need to calm down," Sherlock advised.

In response, Sherrinford made his opinion very plain as the consulting detective suddenly found himself bound and gagged.

Too late Sherlock realised Sherringford was now out of control, and he had no way to reign him back in.

When Sherrinford's body began to shake uncontrollably, Smith thought he was having a fit. But when Sherrinford raised his head it was clear this was not the case. Sherrinford was laughing so hard that tears were rolling down his cheeks.

"Did you really believe that I would willingly come here," he told a clearly stunned Smith. "And allow you to control me?"

A malevolent glint entered Smith's eyes as he realised he'd been had. "It would appear," he snarled. "Sherlock has a greater knowledge than I had anticipated, or appreciated."

"You have no idea," Sherrinford snarled back. "Go back where you came from little man. You'll get no help from me."

As Sherrinford rose to his feet, Smith released that all he'd worked towards would walk out the door with him unless he could find a way to get Sherrinford on side.

In desperation, he promised. "You help me Sherrinford, and I'll guarantee that Sherlock is locked away permanently, leaving you free to exist and live the life you always wanted."

Sherrinford tapped the side of his head and smiled smugly. "Already sorted," he stated as he left the room and headed down the staircase.

From above, the infuriated Smith called down to the rapidly departing figure. "You'll come to regret your decision Sherrinford!"

"I doubt it," came the cool response, just as the front door slammed shut.

SEVERAL HOURS LATER…

BARTS – PATHOLGY DEPT

Molly felt both physically and emotionally exhausted, having just performed a number of autopsies on children whose school bus had been involved in a collision with a truck.

But as she trudged wearily to her office to begin the necessary paperwork, her thoughts were more uncomfortably occupied. Her memories plagued by what had taken place between herself and Sherrinford the night before.

Something about the whole situation on reflection hadn't felt right.

And then it struck her. If Sherlock had been the one to ask her to sleep with Sherrinford, why had he reacted as he had afterwards? The answer – it hadn't been Sherlock who'd convinced her.

And despite the fact Sherrinford had been sweet and caring, leaving her well satisfied, she still felt she'd been coerced and manipulated. Or had he? Was it easier to simply blame him for her actions? How was she ever going to be able to look Sherlock in the eye ever again? Would he ever forgive her?

She was so caught up in her conflicting thoughts that she didn't pay attention to what was around her, until she walked smack bang into a gurney with an empty body bag that had been left carelessly right outside her office.

In some annoyance Molly shoved the gurney aside and entered, only to come to an abrupt halt upon discovering someone waiting for her.

The man was short in stature, wearing a white lab coat. He stood with his back to her.

"Can I help you?" Molly asked, a little confused as to who he was and what he was doing in her office.

Upon receiving no response she stepped right up to him. "Can I help you?" she again asked, this time a little louder.

"I believe you can indeed, Doctor Hooper."

Something about the man's tone of voice had Molly taking a step back. And when she spotted the syringe in his hand, she quickly turned with the intention of escaping. But Culverton Smith would have none of it, grasping her arm and pulling her back to him.

Molly fought with all her might, but though he was small, he was strong, and in the blink of an eye he'd injected the syringes contents into her neck. No sooner had the needle pierced her skin then Molly was instantly unconscious.

Smith lifted her limp body up and carried her to the gurney, and placed her inside the body bag. Before closing it completely he remarked contemplatively. "I do hope for your sake Molly that I got the dosage right."


	9. Power Shift - Part 1

221B BAKER STREET

The video footage being live-streamed to the laptop was sickening to behold.

It showed a bound Molly Hooper, encased within a straightjacket and strapped down to a hospital gurney. With her body thrashing violently, it was clear that she was under the influence of some psychotropic drug – origin currently unknown.

She went from serene one moment, to contorted and twisted with rage the next, then she appeared to grimace in pain, only to have an almost inhuman grin spread across her face, before finally going still, her gaze unfocussed as she stared blankly ahead.

Only once her expression became completely vacant did the person responsible put in an appearance.

Looking well pleased with himself, Culverton Smith gazed confidently down the lens of the camera.

"So," he sneered, glancing back at the comatose pathologist. "Have I got your full attention now, Sherrinford?"

The identity to which he addressed his comments glared at the vile visage filling the laptop screen, but made no comment.

"I warned you you'd regret not agreeing to help me," Smith continued contemptuously. "Now Doctor Hooper must suffer for your stubbornness." Smith turned back to look down the camera. "The decision is yours," a brief pause and then. "I'll be waiting. But don't make me wait too long. There's no telling how long Molly has."

The transmission abruptly ended.

13 LOWER BURKE STREET – BASEMENT

"Well my dear," Smith gloated as he brushed his stubby fingers across Molly's pliant lips, her gaze still fixed sightlessly ahead of her. "Lets hope for your sake that Sherrinford makes the right decision."

She may have been unable to move or speak, but Molly's mind nevertheless raced. Since kidnapping her Smith had maintained a constant dose of whatever halluciongetic / psychotropic drug he'd devised. It didn't take a genius to work out that her usefulness to him was fleeting. Once Sherrinford arrived she would be on borrowed time.

Smith may have originally underestimated Sherrinford, but he understood the triggers to set him off. He was all emotion after all. And it was becoming clear to her as Smith went about his way, finalising his plans to capture Sherrinford so he could be used as a tool to do his bidding, that what she needed right now was the brains.

She needed Sherlock, like she'd never needed him before.

221B BAKER STREET

Sherrinford paced restlessly around the flat. The image of Molly haunting his thoughts, but his wayward emotions were battling for supremacy.

On the one hand he just wanted to race out and rescue Molly. But another, more selfish emotion was holding him back. It reminded him that should he make such an attempt he was certain to fail, and end up caught in whatever trap Smith had set for him.

Sherlock struggled against the bonds Sherrinford had used to bind him.

For a man who usually avoided the inconvenience of unnecessary emotion, he was now forced to confront them head on.

His stomach was still churning at the image of Molly helplessly caught up in a deranged man's sick plan.

If only Sherrinford had stuck to the plan. Instead he'd taken offence at Smith's tone. What did he expect? Smith saw them both as nothing more than a tool to gain information that he believed would see him gain a position of power.

What was needed now was common sense, and a new plan. A plan that included getting Molly away from the clutches of that venomous little snake.

Instead Sherrinford was debating whether it was worth his while.

The whole situation was intolerable.

Something of Sherlock's feelings seeped through to Sherrinford, briefly breaking through the selfish exterior.

But it was enough.

With a sigh of resignation, Sherrinford put on Sherlock's belstaff and headed out the door.


	10. Power Shift - Part 2

13 LOWER BURKE STREET

It hadn't taken long to discover where Smith was holding Molly. After all his intention had been to get Sherrinford there as quickly and as expediently as possible. As such he'd done little during the live-stream to disguise where he was. The features familiar enough for anyone smart enough to take note.

Upon arrival Sherrinford had wasted little time in dealing with the unfortunate Staples, before hefting his inert body over his shoulder and heading for the stairs that led down to the basement.

13 LOWER BURKE STREET – BASEMENT

Molly had regained movement, restricted as it was, and her awareness became sharper, allowing her to take in her surroundings once again, which meant that the effect of the drug was wearing off.

Whether by design or an error in the dosage he gave her she couldn't say, but she had a sense that her system had very quickly built up a resistance to whatever substance was being injected into her.

What was certain was that the horrid little man would soon return from wherever he'd disappeared off to in order to dose her up once more.

From somewhere above her there were the unmistakable sounds of an altercation, causing her heart to leap at the possibility that her ordeal would soon be over.

But before hope could take full flight, she became aware of the telltale tread of Culverton Smith.

Smith peered down at her and with a sigh of false regret he informed her. "Well, my dear Molly, as Sherrinford has decided to do the right thing," he reached over for the syringe he kept on a nearby cabinet, and emptied the contents of an unmarked bottle into it, ensuring that the dose this time would be a fatal one, before turning back to the now struggling Molly. "As I'm certain you've already realised, now that he's here I no longer need…"

Smith never finished the sentence, knocked to the ground by virtue of Staples limp body slamming into him.

"Oh no you don't," Sherrinford snarled as he walked over to the stunned man, who was attempting unsuccessfully to get to his feet.

Finally giving up, Smith instead attempted to regain control by again provoking Sherrinford. "I never would have taken you, or for that matter Sherlock, for the hero types."

"Oh we have our moments," Sherrinford assured him. "You'd be amazed at what we're both prepared to do to protect those we care about."

There was something ominous in Sherrinford's tone that left Molly on edge.

"Sherrinford…"

"It's all right, Molly."

Except that it wasn't. Something didn't feel right.

It wasn't his words that filled her with dread. It had been the expression in his eyes.

Her fears were confirmed when Sherrinford bent down and picked up the syringe Smith had dropped.

But as he grabbed a hold of the now struggling Smith, Sherrinford's actions were halted by a familiar presence.


	11. Power Shift - Part 3

13 LOWER BURKE STREET - BASEMENT

From where Molly lay, she could see that something had changed.

Sherrinford went still. His grip on Smith was still strong, as was his hold on the syringe. But his expression had changed. It appeared almost blank, as though he was deep in thought.

And in a way he was…

Sherrinford couldn't believe what he was seeing. Standing before him, devoid of restraints of any kind was Sherlock.

"How did you..?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock reminded him. "This is my Mind Palace, Sherrinford. What happens in it is solely at my discretion."

"Fine, fine," Sherrinford acknowledged sulkily, finding the whole situation tedious, and nothing more than an irritating distraction. Especially when he was impatient to get back to dealing with the evil little toad once and for all.

"Killing Smith isn't the answer," Sherlock told him.

Sherrinford rounded on him angrily, annoyed that Sherlock now chose to take the moral high ground. "You killed Magnussen," he reminded him. "Why can't I do the same?"

It was a reasonable question, and one Sherlock knew he was going to have to answer carefully. Not least of all because Sherrinford was showing signs of losing control, and that was a dangerous proposition indeed, as that had been the trigger that saw Sherlock putting himself in the power of Culverton Smith in the first place.

"I had no choice. Killing Magnussen was the only option. The information he kept in his Mind Palace made him too dangerous to be allowed to live."

"Smith deserves to die too," Sherrinford argued. "He may not have been in possession of information that could make him a danger to anyone he deemed worthy of his attention…"

They both knew that if Smith had been able to gain control of Sherrinford, he would have become a danger for a completely different reason. But at the moment that was a moot point.

"He was going to kill Molly," Sherrinford continued passionately, desperately.

"It was your damned emotional instability that caused this whole situation," Sherlock snapped with barely restrained fury.

Sherrinford pouted. With his bottom lip sticking out he looked as though he was about to throw a temper tantrum.

"That was why Molly became his target."

As Sherlock's words sank in, Sherrinford's belligerent stance eased

"So what do we do now?" he asked, his tone defeated.

"You let me handle it," Sherlock responded.

Sherrinford accepted the decision without argument.

At that moment the door that kept Sherrinford so distracted appeared. The door opened, and waited.

Sherlock offered Sherrinford his hand., which Sherrinford took before turning to walk through the doorway.

"Goodbye, Sherrinford."

"I prefer au revoir," came the reply just as the door closed, and disappeared.

From Molly's point of view the whole incident took no more than a minute or two.

But it was clear to the petite pathologist that the one who emerged from the Mind Palace was Sherlock, not Sherrinford.

Back in control of his body and his mind he quickly set about putting things to rights. First he retrieved a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket, using them to secure Smith. Then he found a safety cover for the syringe before placing it in a plastic bag.

He then strode over to Molly, and released her from her confinement, assisting her to sit up. With one arm wrapped securely around her, he used the other to place a call to Scotland Yard.

"Lestrade, I need you to come to 13 Lower Burke Street, I have the man behind the Moriarty broadcast. And an ambulance will be needed as well."


	12. Where From Here?

221B BAKER STREET

"You're certain Sherrinford wont return?" Mycroft queried.

"Positive," Sherlock responded coolly. "He left of his own free will. He will remain safely contained."

This statement was followed by an uncomfortably silence.

For the others in the room it was like watching a silent Mexican standoff, with the two brothers sitting across from one another in mute conversation. It was clear by Mycroft's expression that he still had reservations, while Sherlock's showed absolute confidence. The battle of wills finally ended with Mycroft noting with a resigned sigh. "For your sake lets hope that he does."

"Rest assured Mycroft, when it came to Sherrinford I was always the one in control."

Mycroft rose from his chair and made his way to the door, only to find it blocked by a determined Doctor John Watson and Inspector Greg Lestrade.

"Now hold on there," Lestrade cried. "You both have yet to explain how Smith was able to release Sherrinford in the first place."

Mycroft responded. "It was done via the broadcast."

The Holmes brothers exchanged knowing looks at John and Lestrade's obvious confusion.

Mycroft continued. "We believe the broadcast contained a trigger specifically designed so that when Sherlock saw the video, Sherrinford could be released."

John wasn't convinced. "And how exactly did Smith achieve this?" he demanded.

For a brief moment the elder Holmes appeared a little flustered. "We're still looking into it," he replied, and then with his usual superiority he added. "But now that we have Smith in custody, we're confident we'll obtain the answers we seek."

When it became clear that that was all they were going to get by way of explanation, for now at least, John and Lestrade allowed Mycroft to pass. And then they too followed him out of the flat.

As they made their way down the stairs some of their conversation drifted back up to the flat.

"Mycroft, you told us that Smith introduced Sherlock to the concept of a Mind Palace…"

When he heard the outer door close, Sherlock let out a sigh of relief.

Getting to his feet, he'd just started to make his way towards his bedroom when he was brought up short by a query.

"You say you were in control the whole time."

He'd assumed, incorrectly as it turned out, that she'd left with the others. He turned to walk over to where Molly stood, before answering her.

"Correct."

Molly chewed on her lower lip, a small frown marring her brow as she considered his response. After a minute she nodded to herself, having come to a decision. She looked up to meet his ice cool gaze with resolute determination.

"So that includes what happened in your bed?" she clarified.

Sherlock flinched at the reminder of the encounter that would irrecoverably alter their relationship. But if there was one lesson he'd learned over the last three years, it was that lying to Molly Hooper was never an option.

"Yes," he admitted with reluctance.

He expected an angry tirade, fuelled by bitter tears. But again, Molly showed her extraordinary ability to surprise him. The emotional outburst never materialised, instead he noted that she visibly relaxed, as though a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

And in a way it had, the guilt she'd been carrying since that night instantly disappeared. In its place was a resolve to make a certain consulting detective appreciate particular facets of Sherrinford's personalty.

"Sherrinford represented aspects of your personality that you believed unnecessary," she began. "Anything you feared could become a distraction you buried deep within your psyche."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but Molly wouldn't let him. She had something to say, something he needed to hear, whether he liked it or not.

"But in the end that decision to separate emotion from intellect proved far more destructive. Because the emotion became unpredictable and unstable, which ultimately made them more dangerous to your intellects peace of mind."

Molly reached up to cradle Sherlock's face in her capable, yet delicate hands.

"We have feelings for a reason, Sherlock. Maybe instead of locking them away, what you should do is investigate and explore them fully. What you discover may surprise you. Feelings should be embraced, not rejected. They are at the heart of who we are. Bury them as deep as you like, they'll never leave you, they are a part of you. Accepting they have a place takes courage. That's why we risk so much when we allow others in."

Stretching up Molly placed a gentle kiss to his cupids bow lips.

To Sherlock's amazement he neither stiffened nor resisted the brief contact. In fact, when she released him and stepped back, he felt a sense of loss.

He was still pondering this curious reaction as Molly turned and left the flat. He remained standing where he was a moment, before walking over to the sofa. Lying stretched out, his hands automatically came to rest under his chin.

Sherlock wandered through his Mind Palace until he reached the room labelled MOLLY HOOPER.

Reaching out to open the door he spotted the post-it-note that had been affixed to it.

It read simply:

A parting gift.  
Don't delete out of spite.  
-Sherrinford

Sherlock removed the note, pocketed it before entering the room.

It was immediately clear that Sherrinford had made certain additions, specifically relating to the intimate knowledge he had acquired during their night together.

Carefully interspersed with the other more rudimentary facts that Sherlock had collected on 'his pathologist' were detailed accounts of how she felt, what it was like kissing her, the intoxicating scent of her arousal, how it felt when her internal muscles clamped around his cock as she came, the sensation of being so intimately connected…

Sherlock, in his own way did care for Molly, if pressed he would admit that he was very fond of her. Sherrinford used this small chink in Sherlock's emotional armour when he made love to her, to show Sherlock what he was missing. Both cared for Molly, one with his head, the other with his heart.

Sherlock walked over to the chair by the open fire and settled down into it. Gazing into the flickering flame he considered all that Molly and Sherrinford had to say.

When he eventually emerged from his Mind Palace, it was with a sense of renewed purpose, one that he was particularly eager to explore…


End file.
